


The Taste of Memory

by Masu_Trout



Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: Food, Friendship, Gen, Not Rebellion Story Compliant, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 05:14:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9477164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masu_Trout/pseuds/Masu_Trout
Summary: There's an odd girl following Junko around, and she's not quite sure what to do.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chaoticrandomness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticrandomness/gifts).



Kaname Junko was a firm believer in coincidence. One had to be, in her line of work: careers were made, fortunes were lost, companies lived and died over something as simple as the whim of a single investor or the tiniest slip in a stock's market value. Anyone trying to find patterns in the chaos of the corporate world would drive themselves insane.

But still. _Still_.

She was beginning to wonder about that Akemi girl.

Her given name was Homura. She was fourteen years old and a recent transfer student to Mitakihara Middle School. She didn't seem to have many friends, or any family at all for that matter, and she never went anywhere without that bright red bow of hers tied in her hair.

It was a lot to know about someone else's child—Junko had nieces and nephews she didn't know nearly half so well. But it was hard to avoid learning bits and pieces about Homura's life when the girl was around _all the time_.

The riverbank had been a chance meeting, a brief conversation between two people whose lives just happened to cross. Their next few meetings could be explained away easily enough: if Homura was a student nearby, it would make sense that they ended up on the same train at the same time occasionally or bumped into each other at the mall every once in a while.

But the playground? The bank? The _street outside her office_? Things had gone past strange and straight into eerie, and Junko didn't know what to do.

“What could she want?” she asked Tomohisa one night, a touch tipsy and slumped over the kitchen table. “We're not millionaires or famous people. I don't even know _that_ much about the company's secrets.” 

She'd chosen to stay late at the bar with coworkers that night and—for one absurd second—she'd thought she'd seen the girl mingling among the rowdy salarymen in the chaos of the packed room.

Ridiculous. Paranoid. Clearly she was letting the stress of this latest merger get to her. And yet… she'd seen it so clearly, for that one brief moment. Homura's eyes were too dark and empty to be mistaken for anyone else's.

Tomohisa laughed softly as he packed away the leftover's from tonight's dinner. Tatsuya was in bed, the house was quiet and still; it was just the two of them, sharing a room and a conversation. She treasured moments like these.

“A fourteen-year-old corporate spy?” he asked, a hint of a smile pulling its way across his face. “I think you've been reading too many crime novels on the train.”

Junko snorted. “It's _literature_. I'm improving my brain.” She used to read corporate books— _How to Lead Effectively, Managing a Team in the Digital Age, The Five Life Habits of a Successful Entrepreneur_ —until she'd grown up and realized how full of shit each and every one of those authors was. At least novels told you honestly that they were fake.

Tomohisa paused another moment, tongue caught between his lips in thought. Junko watched through bleary eyes as he whipped up the next day's lunches and sectioned them into bright gleaming boxes. She'd always loved the artistry in his movements. 

“Maybe she's lonely?” he offered finally. A hard-boiled egg plopped carefully on top of Tatsuya's lunch, cut to look like a newborn chick in its egg. “You said she doesn't seem to have anyone, right? That's got to be a difficult time in a young woman's life—perhaps she looks up to you.”

“Lonely,” Junko muttered. It made… a lot of sense, enough that she felt embarrassed for not thinking of it before. It fit right into the pieces she had of Homura's life: the longing in her voice when she'd watched Tatsuya play with his imaginary friend in the sand, the deep well of apathy that made her look hardly like a child at all, the way she only ever shopped for one. 

The meetings, random and spontaneous and so very brief—was that Homura's way of trying to connect? Had anyone ever taught her how to strike up a greeting without being rude?

Junko had never truly been alone in her life. Growing up, she'd had three little sisters to cause chaos with, and when she finally moved out it was to join Tomohisa. For a while it had been only the two of them—that first aching loss, two months into what should have been the most exciting time of their lives, made them both reluctant to try again—but even before Tatsuya made his joyful way into the world they'd still had each other.

She tried to imagine coming home to an empty house every day, devoid of laughter or love or the slightest hint of warmth, and found she simply couldn't. The very idea sent shivers down her spine.

“We need to… do something, then,” she said. Her eyes were starting to close without her permission, and it was getting harder and harder to push the words out. “S'not right, leaving a kid all alone.”

Tomohsa made a soft, agreeing noise, then suddenly her arms were around his shoulders. “Come on,” he said fondly, “I think you ought to head to bed.”

She wasn't _that_ tired, but well—the bed did sound appealing right about now. “You're coming too?” she muttered, and felt his head move when he nodded.

“In just a minute. There's a few things I need to finish up in the kitchen first.”

Junko fell asleep in her work clothes, mascara still stuck to her eyelashes and one high-heeled shoe dangling off the end of her foot. When Tomohisa finally came back to bed, she woke up just long enough to wrap her arms around him and pull him in tight.

–-

When Junko stumbled downstairs the next morning, the promise of coffee beckoning, it was to find an extra bento next to the usual three. A note stuck to the top of it said _Just in case_.

If it were possible to fall more in love, she would have done it right that moment.

\--

The first meal Tomohisa made didn't get used. (Or, at least, not for its intended purpose. Her husband's homemade lunches made for _excellent_ bribery material among the overworked and underfed masses in Junko's building.) Neither, for that matter, did the next three.

The fifth, though, made its way into the hands of one very surprised teenager when Junko caught a familiar face staring at her on the train one morning.

“Here!” she said triumphantly, ignoring the looks she got from the other passengers.

The look Homura gave her was harder to ignore; it was something between suspicion and confusion, mixed with a little bit of fear.

“What..?” she asked, sounding honestly baffled.

“It's lunch,” Junko said, and then, just in case she hadn't been clear: “for you.” She let a scowl slide onto her face, using her natural bossiness as a shield to hide her worry. “It's not good for young kids to eat poorly, you know? I know how I was at your age.”

“I don't”—Homura actually flushed red, her face lighting up with more emotion than Junko had seen since that first day on the riverside—“I don't normally eat lunch. I don't… get hungry often.”

Junko tried not to wince. Thinking back, every time she'd seen Homura at the store the girl was holding cheap snack foods or prepackaged meals—the sorts of things even a child on an immensely limited budget could afford, at the cost of healthiness and portion size alike. 

How many calories did Homura actually get? She didn't _seem_ underfed, but you never could tell with girls these days.

“Well then, all the more reason to take it. I guarantee it's better than anything you can buy near you school—my husband's an excellent cook.”

“He is,” Homura said, which seemed an odd response, and then: “but… I can't take this. I don't want to trouble you.” Her strange empty gaze slid towards the floor.

“Nonsense,” Junko said firmly, “it'll just go to waste if you don't take it.” Not technically a lie—letting that underperforming, gluttonous copy editor who worked on the floor below her chow down on her husband's masterful cooking once again would certainly be a waste. “Just clean out the box when you're done and give it back to me and we'll call it even.”

Around them, the train shuddered to a halt. Homura clutched the meal tighter to her chest, glancing between it and the door. That odd ring of hers glinted under the light, seeming to match its wearer's uncertainty; for a while Junko had worried it was some strange piece of engagement jewelry—child brides were another thing those crime novels loved to go on at length about—but lately she'd seen other girls with similar rings so she supposed it was just the fashion.

“This is your stop, isn't it?” Junko asked. “Go on, take it. If you're all that worried, you can pay me back later somehow—I always need someone to help weed the flowerbeds,” she added with a laugh.

“I can't ever pay you back,” Homura said, so quietly that Junko almost wasn't sure she'd heard her correctly. Then, she lifted her head and gave Junko a long, slow look. Her eyes were as dark as ever, but somehow they looked a little more alive now. “But thank you. I'll enjoy this. And I'll make sure to get the box back to you.”

Before Junko could say another word, Homura was threading between masses of people towards the doors to the outside. She slid through just as they began to slide close—a slight wisp of her hair was the last thing Junko caught sight of before she disappeared into the crowds outside the station.

For a moment, Junko just stood there. She was pretty sure the people in the nearby seats were staring at her. Then, slowly, she let a smile spread across her face.

_Lonely, huh?_

It was easy to see once you caught her long enough to have a decent talk—Homura spoke like someone who was barely understood the rules of conversation and only halfway cared.

That was okay. Junko could _happily_ handle awkward. If Homura wanted to hang around, then Junko would at least make sure she got a decent meal and a little bit of human interaction out of it. 

She could hardly wait for work to be over. Tomohisa would be thrilled to know his cooking had finally found its target.


End file.
